


The fairytale that isn't one

by ninamalfoy



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Betaed, M/M, Oneshot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-13
Updated: 2010-01-13
Packaged: 2017-10-06 06:05:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,436
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/50481
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ninamalfoy/pseuds/ninamalfoy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are princes amongst us - you just have to find them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The fairytale that isn't one

**Author's Note:**

> First published on LJ on October 31st, 2005.
> 
> Not true in the least bit. I'm just borrowing their public persona to play.
> 
> Although this could be read as a standalone, I recommend reading [Trusting in you](http://archiveofourown.org/works/50438), the 'prequel of sorts', first.

„It's impossible," Ivan thinks. Too late he realizes that he has said it out loud as his wife's eyes come to rest on him, an eyebrow quirked, waiting for him to elaborate. But he won't do it, not about this, this strange wonderful thing – is it a _thing_, anyway? – that he shares with one of his teammates.

To be correct, with one Miroslav Klose. His Miro.

And he had thought that this would prove to be just an infatuation – these are entirely too familiar to him – burning hotbright, yearning for a coolicy splash of water, for completion, to be done with it once and forever.

But this isn't a fierywhite torch, the heat scorching, lasting only a short time – no, it turns out to be more like a well-stoked fire, flames crackling merrily, never seeming to diminish nor increase, and it warms Ivan, warms him inside out, and every time he thinks of Miro, of his sweetshy smile, the lean strongmuscled body, the quiet voice, it seems as if the flames get brighter – and it's just impossible. Impossible that he should feel like that.

But then, it's like it is, and he can't change anything about it – especially not about his feelings; he knows himself too well, he won't be persuaded to change his mind – and heart (and where did that one come from, now?) – at a whim. He knows that he's holding tightly onto anything once it's in his hands.

And that's where Miro is, now.

Ivan remembers how they had smiled at each other today, at training, and how he couldn't help a silly giddy feeling to bubble up in his chest. Although it had been a day like any other, cloudydrizzly autumn, with the chilly winds finding their way through the thin kits and training suits, it nevertheless felt to him as if the sun shone on him, warming him thoroughly and blissfully. And this feeling flared up whenever Miro chanced to look at him, or vice versa, though Ivan couldn't say who looked first, these longdark eyelashes of Miro's almost obscuring his eyes, and Ivan had smiled back, broadly, and sometimes he'd wink at him, not able to help the giddiness, and then Miro'd look away, quickly, but not before his earshells looked decidedly pinker than before.

It's funny how Miro, who is two years older than he, can be so innocent in some ways. But it has been this innocence, too, that drew Ivan to Miro, that made him want the lankyshy Pole. He wanted to see what really was hidden beneath that quiet demeanor that only got thrown off for short moments after a victory, when Miro jubilated with the best of them, when he did his saltos, when he hugged Ivan tightly, breathing hard into his ear, and Ivan could feel his muscles vibrating, the hidden strength for once visible. One more part of the enigma that was – is Miro.

And Ivan also remembers how he ended up next to Miro in the showers – only by accident, as the last free shower was the one next to the fellow forward – and he saw the leanmuscled back and remembered, much too vividly, how it had felt under his grappling fingers, and he'd been glad that he hadn't left any bruises, that he had been gentle enough. And then he hadn't been able to help himself and let his eyes trail further down, over that perfectly curved ass – a bit on the thin side, not an ounce of fat, the muscles flexing as Miro stepped closer to bend his head back under the onslaught of the hot water, and Ivan had been mesmerized by the drops gathering on the eyelashes, glueing them together for the moment, the slightly opened mouth, and the shower had to chose just that moment to shut itself off. Ivan then had stared right into Miro's eyes and silently thanked God that he loves to start his showers cold.

Miro had quickly turned back, but not before he had let Ivan drown into his eyes, resembling a lake in the mountains in winter, a coolclear blue-grey covering an impenetrable darkness, hiding whatever Miro deems important, and Ivan had sunk to the murky ground, caught – willingly. These eyes still stand clear in front of Ivan's eyes and he thinks that they are the most expressive thing about Miro; windows to his soul, leaving him wide open, and thus everything affects him directly because he takes in everything via his eyes, soaking it up without holding anything back, and Ivan admires him for that. He couldn't bear the intensity himself; he'd lack the strength. He's just Ivan, just a funny guy, facing hardships with a cheeky smile and a bonmot, strutting around and jerking everyone's lashes until they've gotten accustomed to him, being the proverbial guy everyone gets along with, and so far, it has worked for him.

But Mirek, he's a riddle. An enigma. He lets himself being drawn in readily enough, for a quite-too-tight hug or a friendly handshake, or a pat on the shoulder or even on the ass, but somehow Ivan senses that Mirek only lets him do this, gives him the permission to do – with the other guys, he just allows it because it's what everyone does, but Ivan has gotten another… sort of access, as if he passed some unknown test and scored – nay, aced it, got a fucking A+ on it. And Ivan had been intrigued, wanting to find out where Miro's restrictions are, to which extent Miro'll let him. In.

So far, there have been none.

And it's just that moment that the cell phone chooses to vibrate.

"Klasnic," he says, curt.

"Ivan?", and he's getting up, signalling to his wife that this is an important call and he'll be taking it in his den and she nods, knowing better than to disturb him.

"Miro," he acknowledges his fellow teammate, his lips curving up in a smile, wondering if Miro can hear him smiling. "How are you?" Rather an unnecessary question, as he has seen the man in question just some hours ago last, and he had been quite well. But this is the first real, _undisturbed_ conversation they've had since that night, and he suddenly feels awkward.

"I'm fine, Ivan," Miro says, and Ivan plops down onto the leather couch that has seen better days a very long time ago, but nevertheless still is very comfortable, fitting his body like a glove. He can hear some trepidation in Miro's voice, and he knows that it had to cost the shy man a lot of courage to phone him. He can hear quiet breathing on the other hand and swallows. Suddenly, it's as if he's walking on a tightrope, any tiny movement into the wrong direction ready to push him off, send him to the ground in a big splash, and "So, did you just call because you're lusting after my body?"

Oh _no_. He immediately wishes he could rewind the last some seconds, take these damned words out of his mouth – his cheeky side always comes forward when he's on unsafe ground, when he's counting on his wisecracking to gain some favor with the cool guys, to show them that he isn't a wimp – but Miro isn't one of them, and this is rightly proven by the sharp "No!", and Ivan winces, fumbling for words, and then, "No, Ivan – I," – "No, no, I'm sorry," Ivan interrupts, hitting the leather upholstery with his fist, the soft thud not really that rewarding, and then there's an uncomfortable silence, gaining weight with every second that ticks by, until he sighs, wishing that he could have Miro right next to him – he always was better with conveying his want with touches, looks, smiles – well, his body. Not with words; they're just an intellectual weapon, as far as he's concerned.

"Miro…" he begins, wanting to make it right, wanting to evoke that feeling, that… sense of rightness that they share on the pitch, playing passes to each other blindly, seemingly _feeling_ where the other one was going to be, positioning themselves exactly where they sensed the other one would need them. It had intensified on that one fateful night, where Ivan had been his reckless self, the little boy ripping into presents that his parents had carefully and lovingly wrapped, taking his one and only chance with the one man he desired, at first unknowingly so, but then willingly once he had realized his infatuation. And, like a sheer wonder, Miro had given in, had allowed himself to be unpacked.

He has waited too long. "Yes?", hesitating, comes floating down from space, relayed from a house somewhere in Bremen to a satellite up there, and Ivan sighs, rubbing his face, searching for clearness, for intuition. "Miro –" anew he begins, and again he's stalling, and then he groans out of sheer frustration. "I can't speak to you like this, I can't," – "I understand. Excuse me for calling, Ivan," and then he hears the telltale click.

Miro has ended the call. And he's said exactly all the things he shouldn't have said, not ever. Not in this life. With a resounding 'crash', his cell bounces off the opposite wall. Luckily he has bought a rather sturdy one, knowing how prone he is to dropping it, so he doesn't worry too much about actually breaking it. He has enough money to buy himself a hundred new ones.

He knows that his wife must have heard it, and then he also hears steps, and a hesitant "Darling?" right outside the door. Carding his fingers through his hair, he sighs and gets up to pick up the discarded phone. It's still working, at last that much can be said for German engineering. Siemens, good company. "It's okay, Patricia," he says, "I just had to vent."

She won't believe him, but when he opens the door and smiles at her, apologetically, her lips curve up in a slight answering smile and he kisses her, hugging her tightly. "Sorry for disturbing you," he says, "I didn't mean to."

"It's okay," she says, "do you want dinner?"

Ivan sighs. "No, sorry – there's a team matter, and I've got to go and see someone." Well, that bit is true, at least. "I don't know when I'll be back, it's rather urgent."

"Has it to do with this phone call?", Patricia asks, a worried frown marring her smooth forehead. He shrugs, nods. "Yeah, partly. I'm really sorry," but she nods, a quick smile lightning up her beautiful features. "You go and do what you have to do. Otherwise you'll be brooding all day, I know you. Don't I, Ivan?", she says, shooing him off with elaborate gestures and he laughs, grabbing his jacket and wallet and the car keys, and then he's off, blowing a last kiss to her. She's too good for him, he knows it. And he loves her for it.

But now, a more urgent matter is waiting and he knows just the man to phone. Pushing some buttons, he's dialling Tim's number.

"Borowski here," the midfielder answers the call.

"Tim, it's Ivan," he says, inserting the key into the car door and then he's sliding onto the smooth leather upholstery, "I need Miro's address," straight to the point, that's him, "do you have it?"

"Yeah, wait – I've got to search for it, a minute," and he hears steps and papery shuffling at the other end. "Here – no, that's the old one, but… yes, that's it!" and then Tim recites Miro's address to him, it's not too far from where Ivan lives, surprisingly.

After having said his thanks and goodbye to Borowski, not explaining to him just why he needed Miro's address, he starts the car, turning left to one of the main streets that will take him to the city quarter Miro lives in.

The ride goes quickly; not too much traffic on the streets and there he is, parking the car around the corner. He clutches the strangely slippery car keys in his fist. Suddenly, it seems to him as if there's just so much - _too much_ \- at stake, and that sometimes defeat would be better than charging forward blindly, but then, that's his nature and he can't change it. Doesn't want to, and that's why he slams the car door a bit louder than necessary. Miro's home isn't anything fancy; it looks exactly like the houses to either side, the same faded white paint, flaking in some places – the only difference are the roses lining the way to the entrance door, blooms already beginning to fade, red and white petals strewn all over the stones. The door is painted in the same white as the walls; only a simple wooden sign on it with 'Klose' burned into it sets it apart.

Ivan is now close enough to see the grain in the light wood, and as though of their own volition, his fingertips follow the burned letters, feeling the smooth curves and lines of the indent. The wish to steal this sign, to take it with him home so he could always have something of Miro close to him, something that signifies Miro to him so much more than any picture of the shylanky Pole could, pops into his conscious and he chuckles at himself. Why long for something reminding him of Miro when he can have the real man?

And thus, with newlyfound confidence, he presses the ring button, listening for the faint echo in the house. Belatedly, he realizes that there's the distinct possibility that the wife – Sylvia, it is, he thinks – could be there, and maybe the twins, too – and while he wants Miro, he doesn't want the family. But as the door opens, his faithful luck proves true again. It's his Miro, squinting slightly against the setting sun, only clad in a nondescript white t-shirt too big for his slight frame and sweatpants. He's barefeet and his hair's mussed up slightly as if he had been lying down for a nap and the crinkles in the t-shirt support this theory, too.

"Hey Mirek," Ivan smiles. But Miro doesn't smile back; instead, a frown appears between his eyebrows. He leans onto the doorframe, arms folding in front of him.

"Ivan." Hesitating, then, "What do you want?"

Shit. Don't say anything stupid, like 'you', and of course, that's what he says. "You." And then he groans, because, how dumb is that? "Sorry, Miro – I didn't mean it like that, it's just that…", and all the right words, all these explanations he has put into order in his head have just disappeared at the sight of Miro, raising an eyebrow at him. But at least the frown's gone. "I'm sorry. I'm not good with words," and he shrugs apologetically, giving the best impression of 'Dork Ivan', complete with big puppy eyes, spread hands and hunched shoulders – and it works, Miro's mouth curves up in a tiny smile, gone in the next instant, but it _was_ there. "Well, like with that phone talk – Miro, I'm not good at this sort of thing-" – "Thing? What thing; with what there is between you and me, you mean?", the Pole interrupts him sharply.

Taken aback, Ivan cards his fingers through his hair, sighing. "Mirek… can I at least come in?", he pleads. Miro is eyeing him up, scrutinizing. And Ivan, who is suddenly feeling as if someone had actually _tied_ his tongue, looks back, helplessly. The ball's now in Miro's court and he can only do no more than wait.

"Okay," Miroslav says, stepping aside. There's still some faint resistance – some wariness – in his posture and while Ivan longs to touch him, to draw him in, he resists this urge; it's too early. So he nods in thanks and steps inside, taking care to brush off his shoes on the doormat. The hall is bare, only a carpet in Scandinavian style – elks and snowflake stars – covering the dark wooden floor, the whiteness of the walls setting apart the few big pictures on there, but Ivan doesn't stop to look at them, they're just blurs of faces and landscapes as he follows Miro to the living room.

The big TV – one of those flat screens – is set to low, some soap opera's running and there's a woollen blanket thrown aside on the leather couch in the middle of the room. It's almost the same model as the one he's got in his den and Ivan has to smile involuntarily. The next thing he notices is a good-sized wooden cross on the opposite wall, taking up almost half of it; plain but elegant in its simplicity. Somehow Ivan knows that whoever made the sign on the front door did the cross, too, and he walks over to it, longing to feel the fine grain under his fingertips again, the wood sanded smooth but not too much, just enough to take care of splintering.

"I did that." Quiet, but with pride. Ivan turns and sees Miro leaning against the back of the couch, hands resting on its top.

"You did?" Ivan's surprised; he hadn't expected that. It must be visible on his face, for Miro's now showing a genuine smile. "Yeah. My father wanted me to learn a trade, so that I wouldn't only know soccer, and I chose to be a carpenter. This cross was one of the first things I made, the wood's from a beech tree."

Ivan returns the smile with a tinge of appreciation – okay, not just a tinge. "It's beautiful, Mirek." – "Thanks. But that's not why you came here," the fellow forward states, lowering his eyes. "No, it isn't," Ivan states, in the same quiet tone. Miro's not looking up at him, waiting. Waiting for more, and Ivan doesn't know what is safe to say, not trusting his own mouth – and the silence, only interrupted by their breaths, gets more and more dense, weaving a tangled web of things said and unsaid and wished and longed for and feared around them, until Ivan feels as if the air itself has gotten thicker, all these words and things and thoughts weighing it down, and his eyes are still glued onto Miro's still form in front of him, head bent, face cast in shadow.

He has to do something, and if he can't say it with words, fearing their unseen sharp edges and corners, he has to do it another way. A way he knows best.

A step. Another. And yet another – and then Ivan's right there in front of Miro, his mouth nearing the exposed neck, watching goosebumps rise under his breath and then his mouth alights, butterfly kisses, saying sorry, sorry, a thousand times sorry with every touch, with every connection, and his hands curl around the hard grip of Miro's on the couch upholstery, stroking, fingertips following veins, the soft downy hair like velvet, and he tastes sleep, sweat, and essentially Miro, a faint flavour of burning leaves in fall, honey mead and crackling fires, and then Miro turns his head and their mouths find each other.

Ivan says what he wanted to say with his body; with his soft kisses, with his featherlight but insistent touches, he says 'please forgive me' and a thousand other things he wants Miro to know, things he hasn't even voiced to himself, he says it all. Not holding anything back; and he feels Miro's answering shudders and sighs, and suddenly –

Miro pushes him away, and Ivan's stumbling back, his strength having been sapped all of a sudden, and then he meets Miro's eyes, darkcloudy. "Why – why did you do that?," the Pole whispers, breathing heavily. Ivan swallows, and, "Well, why did you phone me, then?"

_Why did you phone me?_ Instead of giving an explanation, he demanded one – but really, it boils down to the same thing. A thing that really isn't a thing, although Miro has called it one; something too huge and too all-encompassing to call it just that, but it's like how you don't call evil by its own name, to prevent it to show itself in all its ferocity and ugliness.

Yet again, Miro surprises him. The Pole just reaches down, steps out of the sweatpants pooling around his ankles, and the t-shirt joins it shortly afterwards.

"Come," and with only this word said, Miro turns and walks back into the hall, with Ivan staring after him, still frozen to the spot, eyes glued to the slender _naked_ figure that has permeated his dreams many a night – every night, actually – since they last were together. Their first time together.

_"Come."_ The word's still echoing in Ivan's head, and what the hell is he still doing here? The leather jacket flies into a corner, the jeans' buttons suddenly provide more of a hindrance than usual, and just when he was about to draw down the underpants along with the jeans he notices he had forgotten to pull off the shoes first. Which leaves him dangerously unstable, only to be saved by a quick grip of the couch's upholstery and some hopping around until he has regained his equilibrium – and then it's another valiant struggle with the suddenly too-tight tied shoes and finally the shirt and the undershirt join the heap of clothes.

After a moment of regaining short-timed consciousness of himself and his surroundings, dismissing them quickly, he's following Miro's path down the hall, and there's a door slightly ajar, light spilling out on the wooden floor and illuminating the dust in the air, goldenglowy shimmers, and it's surreal, somehow, something out of a fairy-tale. As if another world would wait behind the door; glorious and breathtaking and so utterly foreign, but he knows – nay, _feels_ that it's just the thing he has waited for all his life.

So he takes one step and another and then his hand is on the doorknob. A slight push and it's as if the fairy-tale-ness, this imagery, still holds; because what he's seeing is a big bed, king-size, carved dark wood, simple white linen sheets, and someone's lying on it, unabashedly naked, on his stomach, head turned away from him.

Miro. And yet, it doesn't seem like Miro, not like he remembers him; but more like the way he _dreamt_ of him, and it has come true now.

Ivan doesn't know what to say, what to think; he only takes in the slightslender form, the slight tan covering almost all of the body, save for the pale globes – perfectly formed, at that – and the long, long legs with the toes curling, the golden shimmer of the downy hair all over his body, painting the body ethereal, otherworldly. His feet, without his command, take him closer, and closer, and then his knees bump into the soft mattress.

Miro still hasn't moved, utterly still, and although Ivan can hear the quiet breaths, he has this sudden urge to feel if that's really his Miro, and not a changeling, and he eases himself down on the bed, carefully, and then his hand is touching Miro's shoulder: so warm, so alive. And then the Pole turns around, and Ivan's mind is overflowing with disjointed impressions, feelings, thoughts – how Miro's hugs on the field, celebratory, always have this slight tinge of desperation, of salvation, and the things they say to each other in the after-heat of scoring, _"we are perfect"_, how Miro waves to him, shysmiling, and then turns away, shouldering his bag, and _"am I special?"_, why, yes, you are, and how Miro chuckles good-naturedly at Tim's jokes, looking up and meeting Ivan's curious eyes, and his darken, _"god has blessed us, Ivan,"_, and then his mouth meets Miro's.

He's lined up against Miro from behind, their legs aligning, and he can - _I'm drowning in you, Miro, and I don't want to surface again_ \- feel the slender thighs shuddering slightly, carrying over to his own ones, and he trails his hand down Miro's arm until their hands meet –

And then the fingers entwine, their bodies press against each other, like all the times before, but with more layers of cloth separating them, and Ivan knows that he has restrained himself quite some times from just _kissing_ Miro right there on the pitch, after an excellently exercised goal, wanting to just let go with the moment.

Patricia had never complained when he had taken her hard, maybe too rough, these nights, yearning for something he couldn't have and yet did have, in a twisted way. But now – now that he has Miro, his Miro, this strange want is gone, replaced by the feeling of rightness.

Right that they should be together like this, and he whispers "Miro my Miro" into the kiss, and Miro must have heard him as he now twists fully around, fisting his hand in Ivan's hair and claims his mouth and Ivan lets it happen, all of it. Their legs entangle, and then Miro's on top of him, his sweet arse resting on Ivan's upper thighs. Ivan can sense the hot length right down there, close to his own, but not yet touching – which makes him buck his thighs, but Miro's not that easily dislodged, holding on, and Ivan gives in.

It isn't as if he hasn't got the time.

Everything's about Miro and nothing else, smellingtasting - _honey, faint aftershave_ \- him, and his hands rove all over Miro's body, relearning the tight muscledness of the slender legs, the slight twitch of the abdomen, how the dark nipples get hard instantly just after a little rubtwist.

Miro _is_ beautiful. Like this, he could even be called breathtaking; the back arched, the eyes closed and Ivan's drawn to the darkness of the eyelashes against the pale skin, the planes and curves and lines of his body either shimmering golden or being cast into dusty shadows, and then Ivan reaches down, between them, not able to wait anymore, and his own cock twitches as his fingers trail along the length of it, collecting some pre-cum, and then they close around Miro's own member, strongsure, and ah, how perfectly it fits into his hand, as if it were moulded just for him.

Miro's hips jerk, and the Pole's hands twist into his hair – Ivan catches the lower lip between his teeth, suckles – while he's stroking Miro's cock, a steady rhythm, alternating with his thumb circling over the blunt head, the fluid making his hand slippery. His other hand snakes around to Miro's ass, feeling the muscles flex as Miro pushes forward, into his hand, his breaths coming in short puffs, hissing slightly.

Ivan can feel the need for completion building up in Miro's body, in the jitters of his thighs, the quickening of his harsh breath, and in the way Miro claims his mouth again and again, sloppyhard kisses, tongue delving deep, teeth scraping. Ivan quickens his rhythm to comply, but then he lets go and sneaks underneath Miro, catching the warmdamp balls in his hand, massaging them slightly, and Miro sobmoans into his mouth, "Ivanplease_ivan_," the last 'a' drawn-out, and he has mercy. On Miro. And so the hand on Miro's arse slides further inward until the nails scrape over the asscrack, the sweat easing the way to the furls.

And just when his fingers touch it, he returns his hand from the sac to Miro's cock, heavywet hotness in his hand, leaking, one-two strokes, and then Miro screams into Ivan's mouth, halfmuffled, shuddering all over, his hands' grip in Ivan's hair tightening and it's painful, but Ivan would gladly pay this price and more to see his sweet Miro like this, with his head thrown back, eyes scrunched shut, spurts of come spasming out of his cock and drenching Ivan's chest hair, and it's almost enough to make Ivan come, too, but just by that bit.

And then Miro's just – falling onto him, like that, and Ivan wriggles his hand out of the danger zone, sucking in air when he brushes past his still-hard dick, and he hugs Miro, pressing him to himself, burying his nose in the slightly damp hair. Miro's face is mashed into his neck, the hard bridge of the nose pressing against Ivan's skin, short puffs of warm air brushing over it, and Ivan can feel the other striker's heart thumping hard against his own chest. He continues to stroke Miro's back, slowsoothing, feeling the sweat dry. Somehow, despite his aching need, he feels content. He could lie there like that for hours, nay, for days, even weeks. Even if that would get really uncomfortable. Because – well, it's.

"Miro," he says, and then, "Miro my Miro." The words float into the air, slowly. And it's good.

Miro slides off him, not wholly, but enough so that he's lying on his side, an arm and a leg still thrown over Ivan, his semen a sticky mess on both their torsos. Ivan turns his head and their noses touch. Miro's eyes are still darkhuge, but there's a flush on his cheeks, and his mouth is lax, not serious-looking, and when Ivan tentatively smiles at him, it gets returned, and Miro's hand draws up, from arm to neck, and then it's on Ivan's ear, the fingers burrowing in his hair. Ivan can pinpoint exactly where every one of them was and is now, the touches burning into his skin. He gasps, it's toomuchfeeling, toomuchintensity, too_much_ – everything, and that's when Miro closes his mouth with another kiss, but this one's sweetlanguid, mapping every crevice and contour of Ivan's lips, hot tongue tracing, and Ivan lets him, lets him do anything he wants.

Gives himself wholly to Miro, to be his to do with. To be his only and one.

And just when he's being drawn to the ground of the impossibly deep ocean, to be anchored there for eternity, he feels a warm hand close over his cock and it's as if he's diving up, too fast, whitedizzy bubbles twirling all around him, and then there's air, and he's sucking it in thirstily, huge mouthfuls, until his lungs feel like bursting, and Miro's looking down at him – oh God, I want _him_ \- while his left hand is stroking him, slowly, coating it with slippery semen – his or Miro's, it doesn't matter, and Ivan responds by biting down on his fist, scrunching his eyes shut, and his whole body jitterjolts as if a thousand and a thousand electric shocks are run through it, there's no feeling in his legs anymore, all numb – but somehow he finds the strength to hiss "stop, _stop_", and dear Miro, dear beautiful Miro, does so.

Ivan opens his eyes, slowly. Miro's still there, not gone like a dream, not like he feared. He's only looking down at him, the hand with the slenderdeft fingers resting on his stomach, a damp five-fingered circle, and his eyes are filled with questions. Ivan can read some of them, some he can't - these are Miro's own - and some are hidden, but he knows they're there, biding their time. Lurking in the shadows.

"I…", damn, there it is again, "I don't want it to end too soon."

Miro's mouth curves up in a slow smile. "It won't end – as long as you don't want it to."

"Never – oh God, never." This is said with so much fervour that even Ivan himself is surprised. He does not want it to end; he does want to make it more… yes, what? _Real_, yes, something tangible. Something that he'll know is no dream.

"I want you."

"Then why don't you do so?" And then Miro's rolling away, and before Ivan can pull him back, he has thrust his pillow under his hips, his arse lifting and lowering onto it, and then he's spreading his legs, and Ivan's left speechless. It _is_ what he has dreamt of, all these long lonely nights, even with Patricia at his side, snoring softly, and now – his hand is lowering onto Miro's back, right above the buttocks, and he feels the slight jerk, but the right leg slides farther up, granting him silent admission.

"Miro – is that okay?", he asks, and when Miro nods, his face hidden by his entwined arms, Ivan slides his hand down, over the crack, down to the parting of the legs, and then his fingers follow the smooth slope of the skin upwards, into that secret place, and when they find the furls, rubbingstroking, Miro groans. Ivan knows that this bit is pleasurable, and so he continues his massage, the thought of not wanting to hurt Miro at the back of his mind, and so he's surprised when Miro bucks up, swallowing his finger. A sharp grunt, and Ivan feels the muscles clench around his finger. "Miro?" – "Hurry up, Ivan," is the only answer, slightly pained, but Ivan lets the finger rest where it is, and asks, "Do you have anything?"

"God – look in the bedside table, your side," Miro says, slightly muffled. Ivan yanks open the drawer, spots a tube filled with a clear gel, next to some clean hankies, some CDs and magazines, and then he's back with Miro. "No condoms?", he asks again, but then Miro raises his head and turns. "We've done the tests every month, and I'm clean and I don't sleep around and I bet you don't, either, so?" He's blushing, but sounds impatient and Ivan has to shake his head and grin. "Nah, fine by me." With a quick smile, Miro turns back, lowering his head to his arms again and Ivan climbs in between his legs.

Ivan quickly uncaps the tube, squirts some of the clear gel on his hand and spreads it around, gives his dick some quick once-overs, _damn close_, and then he puts more on his fingers. He then lowers himself over Miro, not touching the other's skin, but almost, holding himself up with a hand. The furls now part easily for him, and he feels a shudder running through Miro's body and without seeing it he knows that Miro is gripping the sheets, his breathing growing harsh while Ivan slowly inserts the finger, justsoslowly, rubbing the heated insides gently, curling his finger, and when his finger's second knuckle has disappeared in Miro, he hears a gasping moan – he must've hit it – and his own cock jerks in response, bumping against his stomach, and Ivan closes his eyes, fighting back the sensations trying to overpower him.

When the storm has died down some – but he's still perilously close -, he pulls the finger out a bit and inserts the second one along it, stretching the anus, knowing that with the size of his fingers, it won't be easy to adjust to, and he's right as it clenches around his fingers tightly and Miro hisses through his teeth, so he searches for that point again, slowly sliding his fingers in, and with a slight rocking motion upwards, he's hitting gold, as he's answered by a loud moan, pleasurepain mingled in it, and it goes straight to his cock.

_I'm going to die._ Ivan bites down on his lip hard, hoping the pain will drench some of the too-bright flames licking up from his groin, intent on searing his skin and his mind. Some quick thrusts with the fingers, again and again going _there_, and then Miro's impaling himself on his fingers, bucking up, and, "moremoregodivan_more_," pleading, no, begging for it, and it's just like he dreamt it, and Ivan curses under his breath, quickly pulling out the fingers to hold down on his almost-spurting cock – ah, good pain – because soft-brushed fantasies can never, ever measure up to the glaringsharp reality. When the dire need in him has died down some, the body beneath him moves, and then his eyes meet Miro's, and Ivan's taken aback at the sheer desirewant_need_ in there. When his mouth closes over Miro's, his hand has aligned his cock and with one sweet slide, he's inside of Miro, and they're connected.

One.

This moment; this very ohsoshort moment, just a millisecond, draws out – impossibly long, almost an eternity, and Ivan's seeing it all in detail – his tautmuscled body covering Miro's, fitting together like an intricate puzzle, down to the smallest corner and twist, Miro's head turned up and meeting his, dark lashes swooping down to his cheeks, their mouths crushing each other, intentdesperate, and a golden glimmerglow is thrown over the whole scene, over the gleaming white sheets and pillows, somehow – in a way – christening this. This which was – is impossible, and yet everything's possible if you set your mind to it.

Suddenly, like in a drug-crazed rush, it's all overthrown, becomes a heated rut of sweaty bodies, Ivan thrusting, claiming Miro's mouth in a disjointed rhythm, feeling as if he has been addicted to him since evertime and never had gotten just _enough_, and Miro's giving as good as getting, his slendermuscled body straining and bucking and yearning, seeking for the final release, and the fire roars, the whiteblinding glow burning Ivan, burning his mind until there's nothing more left than Miromiromiromymiro, over and over, and his body screams out to him to let it consume him, and he releases himself into Miro, spurt after spurt, and then it's all blackened, withered, burnt out.

"Do you always pass out like this after it?" Ivan's eyes are closed – bliss – and he feels someone drawing up sheets around him, a warm body curling up against his back. "Huh?" he murmurs, content with the way the strong arms are sneaking around him, holding him. His hand lands on Miro's hands, although he doesn't know how he could find the strength to do so, and the fingers entwine.

A chuckle, warmbreath on his neck. "Ivan." Just this, just this one word, his name, and yet it's said in such a way that makes Ivan tighten his grip on the fingers, makes him smile. "I'm a guy, that's my only excuse. Besides, if you're my prince, you're a lazy sod, lounging around on pillows and such, while I'm out fighting wars and beasts and whatever evil is out there. That does tire out a guy, you know."

"Fighting?" And Ivan doesn't have to turn around to know that Miro's eyebrows are raised. He chuckles. "Yes, fighting for you, my prince. Miro my Miro."

"Ivan, my knight." It would sound funny out of any other mouth, but from Miro, it sounds right. And Ivan knows Miro _gets_ him. Not only on the pitch – and he smiles, echoing Miro's unseen one. And as he's slipping off into sleep, this thought stays with him:

_I'd fight for him. Anytime._


End file.
